


displaced persons

by Sarah T (SarahT)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/Sarah%20T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the smell of tobacco, insinuating its way through the house, that wakes Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	displaced persons

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Spike for beta.

It's the smell of tobacco, insinuating its way through the house, that wakes Mycroft. The reading light is still burning, though it must be almost morning, and the file's contents have spilled from his lap to fan a geopolitical crisis out across the floor like an abandoned game of solitaire. His attention is all for the scent, though: a pronounced sweetness, crumbling at the edges into something just beyond caramelized. None of his staff would dare (and none of them smoke that particular brand). Which means—

He doesn't leap up to track the phantom at once. He straightens his jacket, rumpled though it is, and brushes a hand through his hair. He pours himself a glass of water and takes a few deliberate sips, each time watching the liquid until its surface goes glassy-smooth before drinking again. Then he lets himself be led out of the room by the heady aroma.

Sherlock, still in his coat and gloves, is standing at the great glass window at the head of the formal dining room, his back to Mycroft. His silhouette is dark against the grey pre-dawn light. He's holding a lit cigarette between his motionless fingers. The ash is accumulating slowly.

 _You know I don't allow smoking in the house_ , Mycroft almost says, but, despite the water, his mouth is too dry. There is no one on earth more adept at turning second-hand reports into a comprehensive vision of reality than he is, but it is still very different to hear that your brother is alive and to see him in the dining room after three years of absence. He wants to run his fingers over all the luxuriant details of Sherlock's actual presence, the spring of his hair, the way his stance favors his right knee ever so slightly, the cut of his coat; it's like a physical longing.

"You knew all along," Sherlock says.

"Did you really think I didn't?"

A tiny shrug. Mycroft doesn't approach. He's not going to apologize; this is his nature, this is _their_ nature, and he's never felt it more keenly than at this moment, with his brother a shadow against glass, returned from three years of killing to smoke a cigarette in his dining room. Instead, he stands still and watches and waits. After all this time (all their lives), what is a few minutes more?

"So," Sherlock says eventually, turning his head so Mycroft gets a glimpse of his profile, "everyone's gone and got on with their lives, then."

"Ms. Morstan is a remarkable woman, in her own way," Mycroft says. "I think you will find more space made for you in her husband's life than you expect."

"Lestrade's been promoted," Sherlock continues, as if he hadn't heard him.

"Yes."

"Mrs. Hudson's moved to the country."

"Closer to her sister."

Another microscopic pause, as the smoke curls up towards the ceiling. "And you?"

Time for a pause of his own. This could be the moment, Mycroft realizes, when they could both get _clean_ , make a real separation instead of this endless ebb and flow between them.

But instead he steps forward and takes the cigarette from Sherlock's unresisting fingers. He draws on it—familiar taste, never to be forgotten—says "No," and turns Sherlock's chin to kiss him.


End file.
